


A Kissing Story

by ushauz



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Curses, Fluff and Angst, Halward Pavus' A+ Parenting, M/M, Necromancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-13 23:50:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7990858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ushauz/pseuds/ushauz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a <a href="http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/16500.html?thread=63480948#t63480948">kink meme prompt</a>: I want an angsty, heart-wrenching time after Dorian gets hit with a curse or a spell that can only be lifted with true love's kiss. He can't even find regular, run-of-the-mill love, no way he'll find *true* love. So Dorian resigns himself to whatever the curse did to him (as sexy or quirky or uncomfortable as you want to make it), but then his relationship with Bull or Inquisitor crosses into true love one day, and with a casual kiss, it's gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kissing Story

Dorian probably should have told someone. Honestly, it would have saved him so much trouble, but so many already suspected him of being a blood mage or a Venatori spy, including Cassandra. He didn’t want to add any fuel to the fire.

So instead he complained about conditions, about being taken out of his safe warm tower, of needing his beauty rest and proper food. He always stayed in the back of fights and always refused offers of sparring. Being a ‘spoiled Altus’ was better than anything else.

He didn’t regret the run to Haven, but Maker, he wished he could have avoided the damage.

The problem was, of course, that he was just that good in a fight that Cadash loved to take him out. And wasn’t it just so ironic that it was the necromancy that Cadash found so useful. He wished he could drink himself to forget, maybe just once, but he couldn’t risk it. Instead he would curl up onto his bed and feel sorry for himself. He was good at that.

But Dorian was not a lucky fellow. It was the damn Emerald Graves, and he was not careful enough despite everything. A lurker had snuck past his defenses and stabbed between the ribs. At least his cry of anguish alerted the others before the lurker could stab him again.

Cadash was the one who darted across the battlefield and beheaded the lurker in one, swift move before turning and defending from any oncomer.

After, Cadash had knelt down with worried eyes. “I’m going to strip your robes now,” he said. He always announced or telegraphed his movements before doing anything to Dorian, ever since Cadash had tried to pat his arm, and Dorian had flinched. At least that wasn’t the curse. “I need to look at that wound.”

Dorian nodded apathetically, knowing from the past that Cadash rarely took a sigh as a sign of consent. Cadash quickly stripped his upper torso to locate the wound.

He would see that wound, Dorian had learned. He would tend to it, sew or bandage it if need be, and then after a while people would no longer see a wound and presumed it healed.

Father had such a way with double-edged curses, a mockery that he was sick and wrong. There could be no real love for people like him. Dorian tried not to believe him.

Afterward in the medical tent, alone where no one could see, Dorian carefully threaded his own necrotic energies to keep himself together. There was an arm, still ‘recovering’ from being broken that Dorian had to set himself. There were a large scatting of bruises, a number of cuts of varying lengths and depths. An arrow wound in his shoulder, the one with the broken arm. There was internal damage, toxins that never quite flushed out of his system that he had to seek out and destroy himself. Joints that ached and damaged muscle from over-exertion that could never recover. Fat that had disappeared and never re-appeared as hunger cannibalized his body when he went without. People noticed that sometimes, commented on how skinny he was, jokes about his tendency towards vanity, as if Tevinter prized hunger over health as the Orlesians did.

One day he was sure to fall apart into pieces, literally or metaphorically.

A stab wound was serious. Even with magic, it would take two weeks to heal (for actual people), and so he was sent back to Skyhold when he was ‘stable’. Cadash had apologized. It only made Dorian feel worse.

He cauterized the wound shut as best as he could before returning to his studies. Another week passed before Cadash was back with the rest. Cadash had the delightful habit of checking up on all of his team on a daily basis, regardless of how swamped he was with work.

When he inevitably appeared, he held out a box, tattooed face in an grin. “Got you an apology,” he said.

“Everyone gets injured, Inquisitor. There is no need to single me out,” Dorian said, hand over his still-beating heart, before taking the box anyway with a warm feeling in his chest. He opened it, and his heart did a fluttering thing.

“Orlesian chocolates,” Cadash said proudly.

“Inquisitor-”

Cadash scuffled a foot. “It’s not that big of a deal. One of the visiting dignitaries insisted upon gifting me ‘proper food’ in some long-planned move of the Great Game probably. Josephine insists I start taking matters seriously, but I have the best tactic.”

“Oh?” Dorian asked with a smile. He tried not to clutch the chocolates to his chest like a small child.

“See, you can get away with anything as long as you act pretentious enough about it. Probably wouldn’t work for a small noble, but since I am the great Herald of Andraste, Inquisitor, esteemed dragon-slayer and dashing rogue, anything I do will be scrutinized to death. It apparently all has a hidden agenda, and they keep coming up with how I am outplaying them all anyway.”

“Because of the pretentiousness.”

“Definitely because of the pretentiousness. Also because of being a dwarf. Misstepping apparently just means I knew about the misstep in the first place.”

Dorian laughed. “I don’t think it quite works like that.”

Cadash shrugged. “Eh. I can’t learn well enough before Halamshiral, so I make do.”

Cadash lingered for a moment, before slowly rising on his tip-toes to kiss him.

He had kissed him before. It was nothing new. It never cured him, but more and more Dorian found himself not entirely caring. Cadash was sweet and gentle and could charm dowagers with a single smile. In between slaughtering half of Thedas’ Venatori population, of course.

—

Halamshiral was a rousing success. Dorian had managed to not get seriously injured again, only adding a few minor injuries to his decaying body’s collection. Briala ruled behind the scenes.

Gaspard would inevitably get the upper hand and break free, but Cadash knew Carta. Gaspard would not live through that day.

Cadash had also made excuses for Cullen to mysteriously leave, having noticed his borderline panic attack at all the nobles pressing in on him, sexualizing him. Vivienne cared nothing for Cole, of course. Any number of hats that secretly found their way into his possession was a coincidence. They were all far better than that ratty thing on his head anyway. Sera had long since fucked off with Blackwall, Iron Bull, and the Chargers to have a proper party, and the main event had died down after the assassination of Celene.

Cadash hated both Celene and Gaspard equally.

It was later, and though he had charmed most of the court with his methods, Cadash was obviously weary as anyone would be. He had asked him for a dance earlier. Dorian shouldn’t. Dorian should be a better person, break this off as easily as he could, let Cadash find someone else. Someone who wasn’t slowly rotting away, who had permanent holes in his body and ironically used necromancy to keep himself alive, whose breath rattled in his lungs. He was so careful, and yet even through the magic of the curse, Iron Bull had started to notice something was wrong with him.

But. But Cadash was so weary, leaning against a railing and ignoring the party.

The least Dorian could do was offer a bit of comfort. He offered, breath held, because he was ridiculously selfish and what if Cadash didn’t want him, finally realized _Dorian wasn’t worth it because he wasn’t and never would be_.

Cadash just beamed at him and took his hand. None of the dances Dorian knew would work; they were designed with people of more equal heights in mind. They made do regardless, and eventually Cadash rested his head against Dorian’s chest.

Cadash eventually left with a kiss. It was moonlit and perfect. Dorian’s body stayed the same.

—

Back at Syhold, Dorian steeled himself. It hurt, but it was never about him. He had asked to meet Cadash somewhere private. Cadash, surprisingly, decided to meet him in the abandoned library in the cellars.

Dorian’s breath burned in his lungs. “Look, Inquisitor,” he began before needing to pause. “I can’t give you what you are asking for. I am deeply flattered, but I just- I just can’t.”

Cadash frowned. “But I thought- I mean you seemed interested-”

Dorian bit the inside of his cheek. “I am. If things were different, but I can’t let this progress any further.”

Cadash’s brows furrowed. “Progress? So… That almost sounds like you are fine with how things are right now?”

Dorian paused, hesitating.

Cadash quickly said, “I mean, if you are feeling like we are rushing this-”

“Rushing? This has been glacial by Tevinter standards. We’ve been positively chaste.”

Cadash looked thoughtful. “So you don’t want this to go any further because you don’t want to have sex?”

Dorian felt floored. “I- but that’s what happens. That’s what it is in Tevinter.”

“You may not have noticed, but this isn’t Tevinter, and I’m not from there. Look, if you don’t want to have sex ever, or if you just need more time, I’m fine with that.” Cadash slowly moved forward and gently took Dorian’s hands in his own. “I really like you Dorian. This isn’t rushing. I don’t want to take anything from you that you aren’t comfortable giving. Everyone moves at different speeds. Or not at all.”

This wasn’t how it goes. This doesn’t happen, not to him. His throat clenched, but he squeezed Cadash’s hands. “I’m not really used to this,” he confessed.

Cadash smiled. “Can I kiss you now?” he asked.

They did. Nothing happened, but Dorian couldn’t care less. He still had Cadash. Of course his attempt at breaking-up would fail; it was _Cadash_.

—

Cadash had shown him a letter, offered to take Dorian to Redcliffe, but Dorian wanted nothing to do with his family. Cadash understood, and they never went. Instead they snuggled while reading books.

Cadash fell into the Fade again at Adamant, and Dorian had yelled at him afterward before hugging him tightly. He had taken further damage: ribs bruised from a good swing, internal bleeding that had taken a great deal of panic to stop, blistering burns across part of his arm and chest from a hostile spell. It was too much, and Dorian could no longer go on field missions. Iron Bull had definitely noticed his ill health and had asked him about it. Dorian had claimed it was just a condition he’s had, and Cadash lectured him for ‘needlessly endangering his safety’. Then Cadash had brought him genuine Tevinter spices, and Dorian almost wept. He shared them later with Krem who had as complicated relationship with their homeland as Dorian did. As terrible as Tevinter was, no food could compare. The Chargers had stopped offering him alcohol, respecting his decision to abstain.

He played rounds of Wicked Grace with the others while Sera kept trying to sneak him food with concerned looks. Cole continued to ask him very personal questions, but thanks to Varric and Cadash, was finally starting to understand things like ‘personal boundaries’ and ‘basic privacy’.

Solas had begun to give him odd looks, no doubt to the practically a miasma of necrotic energy that Dorian left in his footsteps. He could no longer cast complex spells as too much was bound up in keeping himself from collapsing. He studied and researched and proved that Corypheus was once a real person though not a sniveling ankle-biter. Pity.

Cadash and Dorian were sitting together in Dorian’s chambers as Cadash’s had giant windows and tended to be cold. They were eating fresh oranges, Dorian’s head resting on Cadash’s thigh, while Dorian ranted about Varric’s latest chapter which was terrible, and Cadash declined to mention that Dorian had read the whole thing.

“I shudder to think of the monstrosity when Varric inevitably writes your story,” Dorian said haughtily. “I talked with Hawke about Tale of the Champion. Everyone was horribly mischaracterized, and events were written wildly out of proportion. I detest his writing.”

“Nah. I think you like it,” Cadash said before leaning down to kiss Dorian.

Dorian felt very warm. “I would never say that,” he said.

“Nah. You wouldn’t.” Cadash smiled before stretching. “I’m sorry Dorian, but I have to-”

“Go prepare for the march on the Arbor Wilds, yes yes. I understand.”

Cadash’s smile turned into an outright beam. “I’ll visit you later. I’ve got another present.”

“You spoil me,” Dorian said fondly.

Cadash kissed him one more time before leaving.

Dorian did not sigh like a swooning maiden because he had not been reading too much of Varric’s work. He braced his muscles to sit up before stopping in shock.

Carefully, he lifted an arm. It moved without resistance. Dorian stopped breathing. Frantically, he stripped off his clothing, checking ever inch of him. It was all gone. Perhaps? He let the magic slowly drain, testing for any signs of injury, or himself for dizziness. Anything that could be wrong.

But there was nothing. He was fine. He was _fine_. There wasn’t a single injury.

For a moment he just sat there, uncomprehending, before breaking out into hysterical laughter. He spun in a circle with no aid of his magic, cast fire and then ice and then fire because he could, because he could drop the magic holding him together. His eyes burned, and he sobbed for some reason he couldn’t comprehend.

Why now? Why now and not earlier? He didn’t understand, but that didn’t matter. His father was wrong, and he _was_ loved. His father was _wrong_.

Should he tell Cadash? Dorian stared down at his perfect hands. The curse was- had been complicated. Dorian would be tempted to say it was all in his head, but people had started to notice, even if they couldn’t tell why. Surely they would notice now. He was still far too thin, but now his body could recover. He could drink again. He could-

He hadn’t, because it felt too wrong, too much like the mockery of his peers when he decided on necromancy as his choice. But now?

It would be too much to take in at once. It was almost too much for himself to take in right now. Cadash didn’t need to know. Dorian might tell him someday, but not now, nor any time soon, or maybe not at all. It would take time for Dorian to adjust back to having a healthy body, and he would need to think through things, of things he might want or might not want.

But he could finally ponder these things because his body was whole again.


End file.
